The Tower and Staff
by sarahshenanigans
Summary: Therese joined the Inquisition to exact revenge on the Templars who killed her mother. Killian joined the Inquisition to preserve some of the oath that he took as a Templar, which his comrades seem to have forgotten. The only thing the two have in common? Their enmity toward each other. Thrust together by circumstance, bound by shared orders, Therese and Killian find themselves on
1. Chapter 1

**1**

"Did you see that?" the younger of the two Templars asked, his Orlesian accented voice tight. His hand twitched nervously toward the sword belted to his hip as panicked eyes darted to and fro.

"Louis, if you make me chase another bloody fennec into the brush, I swear to the Maker-"

"It wasn't a fennec! Just go look."

Louis's companion rolled his eyes, drew his sword, and advanced toward the wall of thorny bushes behind which Therese crouched, her back pressed into the sheer rock face of a hill. She clutched her staff closer to her chest with white knuckles, trying desperately to recall the spell of invisibility that her mother had taught her. "Damn Orlesians. Scared of their own shadows," the Templar grumbled. His eyes, despite his annoyance, were focused as he searched the foliage for signs of movement.

Therese fought the urge to shrink back beneath his scrutiny. Her fear of Templars had emerged somewhat recently, as she had spent the last eighteen months of her life hiding in the ruins of ancient fortresses, abandoned farmhouses, and once even the remains of what she thought must be an Elven temple. For the past couple of months, she's begun to believe that she might actually be able to build some kind of life for herself in the hills outside Redcliffe, but then the sky had torn open, and the Mage-Templar War had surged and spread, and she found herself fleeing once more.

Life had been easier in Orlais, before Grand Enchanter Fiona had called for the vote. Before her mother had been killed by Templars shortly after arriving home from said vote. Before she had been forced to escape under cover of night with nothing but her staff and the clothes on her back, and flee into Ferelden. And certainly before the sky had begun raining demons.

Therese and her mother had made their home on a tiny farm across the river from Sahrnia, in Emprise du Leon. There, they grew vegetables and herbs that they traded in the village, and her mother taught her magic in secret, lest they be discovered. As a child, Therese didn't know much about her mother's life before the farm, except that she had been a mage of the Spire, and she didn't trust the Circle. Later, Imogen had confided in her daughter. She'd had a Templar lover, and when it was discovered that she was pregnant, he had helped her escape. The Knight-Commander at the time had threatened her with Tranquility if she didn't name the father, and was told that the baby would be sent to Montsimard as soon as possible after birth. Of her father, Therese knew even less. She had inherited his dark hair and blue eyes, though the curl she'd gotten from her mother. She had also inherited her father's human appearance.

As a child, Therese had been envious of Imogen's graceful, pointed ears and large eyes. She would sit on her mother's lap, pouting, her tiny hands pinching the tips of her own ears as though doing so would change their shape. Imogen would chuckle warmly and take her daughter's hands in her own. "Be grateful," she would say, "that you have so many of his features, Da'len. Whenever you look in the mirror, you will see us. You will carry a piece of him, always."

They had never had to hide. Not until the day that Imogen received a letter inviting her to attend the vote for Mage independence. Templars had been camped nearby, and followed Imogen as she'd traveled home. The night after her return, they attacked the farmhouse. Therese had barely escaped. Since then, her life had been nothing but trying to outrun a war.

And now she sat, exhausted and hungry, between a cliff and an angry Templar, praying to the Maker that she would not be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Therese felt the tell-tale prickle of lightning across her palms as the Templar neared. She sucked in a deep breath as quietly as she could, willing the crackling light to dissipate. If the Templar saw the flicker of forming lightning in the bush, she was done for. But her anxiety was too great. The lightning surged, and a wicked sneer spread across the Templar's pitted face. He reached into the bushes, grasping blindly with a claw-like hand, until he snagged the edge of her cloak. A little further probing, and his hand closed, vice-like, on her upper arm.

Therese could hear her heart pounding in her ears as he hauled her roughly to her feet. "Look what I found, Louis. Seems you were actually right, this time."

Louis's eyes widened in excitement. "I told you. Always with the disbelief." Louis took in her terrified form with one long, slow look that curdled her stomach. "She's a pretty little thing. It's too bad she's a mage. I would not want to sully myself with her."

"You might not, but I'm not that picky," the second Templar chuckled darkly and sniffed her hair. Therese flinched.

"Don't touch me," she spat

"Ooh. Feisty little one. You see this, mage?" Louis patted a vial filled with glowing blue liquid strapped to his belt. Therese gulped. _Lyrium._ She'd never seen any in person before. But she knew enough about Templars to know that with just a swig of lyrium one could nullify her powers, and she would be entirely helpless. "I do not want to waste this on you, but I will. Now, be a nice little girl and play along for Bran."

"Ha," Therese scoffed and willed her voice not to shake, "You won't use that for me, even if I fight. Look at you. Dark circles beneath your eyes, sunken cheeks. The way you touch that bottle, it's like you're touching a lover. You're a lyrium addict if I've ever seen one. That's your last philter, right?"

Louis's face twisted in rage, "Shut your mouth you little bitch!" He raised his hand and struck her, hard, across the cheek. Therese's head snapped to the side, her vision darkening, then filling with stars. She felt the sting of lightning arcing across her palm, and clenched her fist. She'd never used magic to kill a man before, but the rage and pain made it a very tempting idea.

From the corner of her eye, Therese caught a flash of movement behind a tree nearby. Her panic redoubled. _Another one?_ Her eyes darted back to her livid captors. It seemed that neither of them had noticed. She slid her eyes slowly toward the tree, catching a flash of bright red hair and the glowing tip of a staff. The presence of another mage was a minor comfort. They would not hurt her right away, at least. She spat into the dust at Louis's feet, "Do you want to see if you can down that lyrium before I can unleash my lightning?" She muttered darkly, and allowed the prickling electric current to drift upward, encircling her arm in purple light.

Bran laughed behind her, his grip tightening painfully. "Seems she wants a challenge. Think we should - "

A burst of flame caught Louis's cloak, and he cried out in alarm. "We're under attack!" He screamed, trying desperately to unlatch his cloak before the fire spread. It was futile, however. This was a mage's fire, conjured from the Fade, and the heat had already begun to form blisters around the Templar's neck. Therese froze in shock for just a moment before seizing the opportunity to loose her lightning, sending it arcing up to the gauntleted hand of the oaf who held her. His body went rigid, and she spun away from him, holding her palms outward and using the lightning to hold him in place. With his eyes wide and his mouth agape, he looked startlingly like a fish, she noticed with grim humor. An arrow whistled through the air over her shoulder, landing squarely in the center of Bran's throat. Therese banished the lightning with a flex of her fingers and watched as he fell to his knees, blood filling his mouth, and stared up at her with wide eyes that dulled as he gargled his final breath.

Vaguely, she was aware of the sounds of combat behind her, blows landing and grunts of effort as steel met steel. But her attention was fixed on the still form of the templar at her feet. She'd never actually seen a man die up close. She'd witnessed combat between mages and templars from a distance, but she was always gone by the time any fatal blows fell. The sooner she was away, the safer she would be. But this… Bran's sword arm lay curled beneath him, bent unnaturally. His other hand was still curled as though around her arm. His eyes were fixed as though staring at some far-off spectacle, though she knew they were unseeing. The world around his corpse fell into blackness until he filled her vision. She heard voices around her, two women, two men, but she could not focus on what was being said. She had a feeling that she was being asked a question, but she could not turn her head to see who had addressed her. She could not find her voice, though she knew that her mouth was opening and closing. Bile rose in her throat, and she felt her breathing grow shallow.

 _This is death…_ she thought, before falling to her knees and retching on the ground at the dead templar's feet. Her head spun as the ground rose up to meet her, and then all the world was black.


	3. Chapter 3

Killian knitted his brows at the cacophony that had erupted in front of him. Just when a wary rhythm had been restored to the ill and wounded here at the crossroads, it seemed that another refugee had been added to their number. "As if we needed one more," he scoffed. This earned a less than amused glance from the Inquisition scout standing beside him. He fought the urge to flinch under her scrutiny. Letting a little freckle-faced dwarf woman intimidate him. Maker, was he a Templar, or wasn't he? Killian pursed his lips and sighed when he remembered that, no, he wasn't a Templar. Not anymore. He was a deserter.

Across the lane, he watched as the bald elf and the Seeker who travelled with the Herald carried the prone form of a tiny woman toward the row of cots erected for the wounded. From the look on Seeker Penteghast's face, she was less enthused about this addition than Killian was. Behind them came the Herald, her flame-red hair like a beacon in a stormy sea. Killian wondered if it were possible to magically enhance one's hair colour. Gasps and whispers travelled through the assembly, rippling across troubled faces alight with speculation until they reached Killian's ears.

"A mage? They rescued a rebel?"

That was when Killian noticed that the Herald carried two staves. One had to be hers, everyone knew she had been an enchanter at Ostwick. The other must have belonged to the woman now lying under the healer's gentle ministrations. _Is she mad?_ Killian wondered. There was no telling what kind of chaos a rebel mage could bring upon these suffering villagers. She could be a blood mage, an abomination, rogue Templars could have followed them here. They were an unstable lot, the rogue Templars. They'd been known to slaughter innocents with nothing more than suspicion that one could be harboring a mage. If they followed the Herald to the crossroads, how many refugees would die before the Inquisition forces took them down? Unconsciously, Killian's hand slid to the hilt of his sword, the leather grip warming in his hand afforded a sense of security.

"Stand down, soldier," Scout Harding chided from his side. He glanced down into her face, which seemed both amused and stern. How did she manage that? He took his hand from his side and folded his arms defiantly in front of his chest.

"This bodes ill," he grumbled.

"Are you questioning the Herald's decision?"

"Aren't you?"

"Not my place. I'm just a scout. Besides, I trust her." Harding turned again to face the Herald, who stood now at the side of the cot, concern evident on her face even from this distance.

Killian rolled his eyes. _Trust her? I didn't realize that wanting to bed someone meant trust._

Night had fallen, the chaos had died down. Refugees and soldiers alike returned to their duties or settled to sleep long ago. Killian strode quietly between the tents and huts and sleeping forms scattered across the ground. None of the few refugees who were still awake would question another soldier walking the crossroads at night. As long as he tried not to look suspicious, none of the other soldiers would, either. He approached the healer's hut with purpose, eyes narrowed, ears tuned to any disturbance in the darkness. Part of him wanted to curse his own paranoia, feeling foolish for being on high alert. But he also understood the need for caution. No one understood what the mages and Templars were capable of better than someone who'd lived among them.

That was the reason he wandered alone this night. He knew that he had no place to question the Herald's motives, but, truly, he thought she was insane. How dare she bring a rebel mage into their midst? How could she- he paused his furious musings when he realized the woman he'd seen earlier was probably an old friend of hers from Ostwick. The thought made him almost sick to his stomach. That she would be willing to risk the lives of so many for the sake of one power-crazed abomination, and still be referred to as the chosen hero of Andraste… Killian set his face in grim determination and rounded the corner of the healer's hut, then stopped dead in his tracks.

"As soon as she comes to, fetch me. Allow entry to no one but myself and the healer. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Worship." replied the guard. Killian knit his brow in frustration. ' _She's set a guard.'_ he sighed. ' _This will make interrogation a bit more complicated.'_


End file.
